A Porthos Romance Bonus: Marianne, Alone
by sfrost
Summary: The events of this sub-plot take place after chapter 23 of the main arc, L'amante de Porthos. Marianne flees from the Iron Mask and ends up somewhere unexpected... There are no original Anime Sanjushi characters in this arc, only mentions of them.
1. Chapter 1

**L'amante de Porthos Bonus Story**

**Marianne, Alone**

_The events of this sub-plot take place after chapter 23 of the main arc, L'amante de Porthos. Marianne flees from the Iron Mask and ends up somewhere unexpected... There are no original Anime Sanjushi characters in this arc, only mentions of them._

Marianne's eyes could barely open. Her body felt stiff and every muscle and joint felt sore and inaccessible. Her head spun dizzyingly, making her stomach turn. She groaned softly. There was pain everywhere. Dull, throbbing pain that reminded her of its presence with the most minute of gestures.

Where was she?

Did they finally capture her? The last thing she remembered was the frightening image of that large man who wore a mask made of iron on his face. Those red slits… She shivered with terror and her body ached once more. Was this her prison cell? Did they beat her senseless?

But this bed was rather comfortable and those sheets smelled clean and felt crisp. Unless they brought her to one of the houses of the aristocrats.

In her struggle to regain control over her body and senses, she began to hear voices. They were whispering and she could tell it was about her. She closed her eyes again and concentrated on listening.

"We can't keep her here, Cecile! Are you mad?" came the anxious voice of a man.

"And what would you have us do? It was your fault! You shot the musket!"

"I thought it was a robber, or a wolf! Besides, our horses are specifically trained _not_ to be alarmed at the firing of weapons."

The woman with the exceptionally feminine voice let out an exasperated sigh and Marianne could almost see her rolling her eyes at her companion.

"But really, Cecile! And Princess Alexandra was bred for the shooting, I don't understand. I have to have a talk with that one."

"You and your horses, really Bertrand! There's a wounded girl in our home and all you can think of is the horse!"

"May I remind you that our horses are the only thing affording us a decent life and..."

She cut him off, "Yes, yes, I know."

"Well, find out what you can about her and then we have to send for someone to fetch her. I have to return the horse to the Cardinal's estate and I don't want to have to be asked many questions. It's bad enough that it came back to us. Oh, what would the Cardinal's Stable Master think of this!" he whined as he descended down the stairs.

The door to her room opened gently and Marianne could open her eyes enough to see a woman with dark hair and a large figure penetrate the room. She put her hands on her waist as she examined the limp body of her guest.

"You poor thing!" she clicked her tongue and ventured towards a small table where she brought a cold towelette and placed it on the back of Marianne's head.

The latter attempted to open her eyes a bit more. She opened her mouth to speak but she couldn't find her voice. However, she could now see the face of the woman clearly. She was young. Not yet in her thirties, but close. Her features were kind and motherly yet there was something in her touch, in her manner and in her build that showcased an unnatural strength.

"It's alright, don't tire yourself, Mademoiselle," she said, "You fell off Princess Alexandra. My husband shot a bullet into the air, thinking you were a robber or worse, a wolf, and it scared the horse and you were thrown off. Mind you, your form was rather poor and your grip almost absent, it was no surprise you fell with such force."

Marianne closed her eyes. So, that was the ringing in her ears. The last thing she heard before she went unconscious was a shot. Instinctively, her hands had gone to her chest. She thought she was hit, she thought she had died. And suddenly she felt guilty. Not too long ago she had been in a dark room, mourning her lot in life and wishing for death. Should she be relieved or disappointed that the bullet didn't find her?

She looked up at the concerned face of her hostess. Who was this woman? Where was she? Had she really escaped? What happened to her uncle? So many questions floated in her head. She began to lose consciousness once more and she fell back into oblivion at the calming touch of this stranger.

Marianne regained her consciousness by way of a sharp assault to her senses. It was as if the smell traveled all the way from the kitchen one floor down and like a targeted arrow, pierced through her nostrils and ignited her brain awake. It was none other than the delicious and scrumptious smell of salt-cured pork crisply fried in a pan: bacon.

For a moment, the young woman was disoriented. She felt as though she was back in her own room, in her own home, on a fine autumn morning when their German housekeeper, Frau Liesel, would be frying an endless supply of bacon and other cured meats for breakfast. She and Gerard would jump out of their beds, completely neglecting to make up the sheets or even to change and head straight down to the kitchen where they would quarrel over who would have the most pieces.

The memory elicited a pang to heart that jolted her more awake. No, she wasn't home and Gerard wasn't there. For the first time in her life Marianne realized she was completely alone. Alone and far away from home, in a stranger's house no less.

If it weren't for the allure of what the kitchen downstairs seemed to promise and her growling stomach, she would have given way to more of these ponderings. Instead, she sat upright, completely ignoring the heaviness in her head and the aches in her body. She could see the sun rays streaming from in between the curtains covering the only window in the room. She gulped down some water from the glass set next to the bed and pushed herself up and followed her nose.

Through her brief journey from her room to the kitchen and from the views she caught outside the windows along the way, Marianne could determine she was in a farmhouse.

She poked her head through the kitchen door. It was a large kitchen with large stoves and plenty of food spread across its multitude of counters: breads, pastries, fruit and vegetables, cheeses, cured meats, hanging herbs and jugs of fresh milk. She was sure that there was another pantry somewhere housing all kinds of jams and preserves.

She devoured everything with her eyes and her stomach cried out loud, announcing her presence in the most indiscrete of ways, causing her hostess to turn around and laugh. Marianne blushed.

"There is nothing like a good breakfast to arouse even the frailest of us! Food is medicine," she mused, "And there is nothing like the smell of bacon to drive anyone out of bed." She chuckled, "You're just like a brother of mine. Always following his nose wherever it leads!"

Marianne smiled. She quickly learned that her hostess liked to chat, even if no one was particularly conversing with her. It was heart-warming and so different than the quiet reserve of the people she had grown up around.

She brought her hands to her temple as she felt her head throb again. Her hostess pulled out a chair by the kitchen table in the middle and helped her to it and for the first time, Marianne noticed that she was pregnant.

"Thank you," Marianne whispered. Her voice was as thick as the drink that was just put in front of her by the strange kind woman.

"Here you go, Mademoiselle. I expect you might be missing your chocolate," she said, with a look of concern on her face.

Chocolate! What, _here_? At a _farm_? Chocolate was expensive. She took a sip, letting the warm thick liquid flow through her body like a revitalising elixir. She could taste a hint of cinnamon and cardamom in it, too. She let out a soft moan of satisfaction that amused her hostess.

"Thank you," Marianne repeated herself. What was wrong with her! She, who spoke more than seven languages could barely utter anything else. She blushed once more. She felt like an intruder.

The lady of the house waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, "Not at all. We're not very fond of it, me and my husband. My husband supplies horses to many of the nobility around the country and we are sometimes fortunate to receive particular gifts of all manners of exotic things. Mind you, I prefer to receive golden pieces but Bertrand says that the cultural exchange is worth more. He likes to feel important," she chuckled. Marianne grinned at her over her cup.

"Well look how pretty you are this morning, Mademoiselle! You were a terrible sight last night," she shook her head pitifully. Marianne now knew that her hostess also had a panache for bluntness but that it was not unkind. "And that dress of yours. I would have taken it off you so as not to spoil the sheets but I daren't move you too much for fear you had broken something."

Marianne was mortified. Of course, it was the same dress she had been wearing for… how many days now? Two? Good God! She hardly wore the same dress throughout an entire day, let alone two days. She looked down at herself. It was muddy and covered with blood stains and the skirt had a tear in it.

Blood stains. The memory she had been working so incredibly hard to repress forced herself into her mind with such a herculean intrusion as to equal that of the person it belonged to. Porthos. _Her_ Porthos. He, to whom, she had trusted her heart, trusted herself. He, whose smiles and lighthearted spirit warmed her heart like nothing ever did. The one she had wanted to run away with, whose presence she could not get enough of. And then, the one who had wounded her in more ways than one. Her right hand clasped her left forearm. The bandages were still there but they were becoming lose and were stained with dried blood.

While she was lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice the three pairs of eyes who were staring at her wildly with utter curiosity and wonder.

Her hostess was now piling up the last of the bacon onto a tray and she addressed the newcomers.

"Well? What do we say to guests?"

The three children fidgeted, still taken aback by this strange-looking person who suddenly appeared in their midst. Marianne, too, was regarding them with the same wild curiosity. The fact is, she had never been close to children in her life. She spent most of her time alone or in the company of adults or Gerard. She had seen children walking and playing in the village, but never had she had to interact with any of them.

"_Bonjour_," it was Marianne who spoke, as if the question had been directed at her. She waved her hand in a greeting gesture.

Two of them, a young boy about three years old and a girl about five, hid behind the eldest of them who stood in the middle: a seven-year old girl who looked very much like her mother.

"_Bonjour_, Madame," she spoke with assurance, "We are pleased to make your acquaintance." She inclined, lifting her tiny skirts.

Marianne's heart almost exploded with tenderness. Children were always such a foreign concept. She never gave them any thought and had never felt any kind of maternal instinct or a connection to her own body in that regard. And if it had ever crossed her mind, it only brought about feelings of uneasiness and disgust. Yet, faced with these adorable creatures, it was impossible not to want to shower them with loving hugs.

"Well done, Lucille!" mother, proudly praised her daughter.

After some encouragement from their mother, Marianne learned that the younger girl was called Colette and the boy, Peter, after his grandfather. She couldn't help but notice his messy little curls, his chubbiness and his mischievous grey-green eyes. He reminded her so much of… _No, stop thinking of him_. Her grief over this defunct relationship was making her mad. She was projecting his image on this little boy. And yet… She exhaled and brought herself back to the present, only to catch the last few words of her hostess.

"…and this is Mademoiselle…"

Everyone was looking at her expectantly. _Oh God_, they wanted to know her name. She couldn't think of anything else more original. She cleared her throat. "Katherine. De Villebois."


	2. Chapter 2

The hostess regarded her with suspicion that made Marianne avert her eyes. The fact is, Cecile Bouchette may be a simple country woman who lived on a farm with her husband and children, but she was well-acquainted with the ways of the world and the business of her husband afforded her many opportunities into the houses of the nobility, even if it was through the servants' doors. She may not have had an education but her memory was impeccable and she knew all the nobility names, their children and who was who's relative and who was doing what and with what all across the country. In short, she was the one everyone in the village came to for some entertaining and raunchy gossip.

_De Villebois_. She searched her memory far and wide but could not place a name like that among the nobility. She knew servants with this name and once upon a time, a doctor, who had died under mysterious circumstances about a day's ride East of here. It was impossible that this young woman was related to a de Villebois. Despite the ink marks on her hands, her hair had a healthy shine and natural wave in it that could only come from regular grooming and bathing. Her skin, albeit freckled in places, was milky and soft and the shape of her eyes and the contours of her face could only belong to an aristocratic lineage. And from the looks of her chin and her nose, a high born one, too.

"Please, call me Katherine," Marianne attempted to soothe the atmosphere and ease any suspicion.

Cecile regarded her one last time and relented. So, the young lady had a secret but Cecile had a natural talent of uncovering secrets.

"Very well, Katherine," she said with a slight mocking tone, "I am Madame Cecile Bouchette and my husband is Bertrand Bouchette. But you may call me Cecile."

...

To Cecile's amusement and surprise, Marianne ate like a wolf who had been starving for days and had accidentally stumbled on a chicken coop.

"Upon my word! I don't think I had ever seen someone eat this much other than my brother," she declared.

Marianne chuckled, "Forgive me, it's been a while."

"Evidently! Here, you'll need more, we can't have you looking like a lanky stick while you're staying here." She spooned more scrambled eggs and potatoes onto her plate. But it seemed that the young lady was more interested in the meats and the cheeses. How unladylike, thought Cecile. But she had to admit that there was something charming and beguiling about this mysterious stranger.

While Cecile had no doubts that she was of a noble family, it seemed that the young lady had never been properly instructed. Or she otherwise refused to be instructed. Her reserve, she was beginning to see, was not a product of the usual repressive upbringing of women in her rank, but it was rather a natural part of her personality.

The more she ate, the more agreeable she became. She sighed and moaned obscenely while savoring every bite on the table. The children laughed and began to imitate her, to Cecile's displeasure. Yet she couldn't help but feel a sense of pride that her cooking could elicit such a pronounced reaction from her visitor. Or perhaps the young lady fell on her head too hard?

She continued to observe her with curiosity. She had quickly warmed up to the children and they were all animatedly engaged in the most obscure of conversations over what is the true accurate shape and color of an apple. Was it round? No, it was heart-shaped, Colette yelled! No, it was square, Peter put in. It's obviously a circle, Lucille rolled her eyes, trying to impress their guest. The latter was so absorbed with them and entertained. It's actually a composite shape, she said. And she cut up the apple and began to show them some lines and explain what a composite shape meant.

Before long, Cecile found herself drawn into the conversation as well. What _was_ the true shape of an apple?!

Suddenly Marianne blurted out, "Have you got any figs?"

"Figs?"

"Yes! They taste so remarkable with the goat cheese and I'm sure they would compliment this particularly scrumptious cheese you have here. Especially with the jam." There was a glimmer in those mysterious amber eyes now that made this stranger seem more strange and yet more familiar at the same time.

Figs and goat cheese. Goat cheese and figs… That was Cecile's mother's favorite thing to eat. Something she had passed onto her children. As far as she knew, no one had such a high regard for this odd mix except in her family. Even her husband was not too fond of it.

She cut up some figs and brought them to the table. Marianne thanked her heartily and began concocting the little treat she had learned from Porthos, exactly in the way Porthos had done. Exactly in the way Cecile's mother had done. She watched with fascination.

"What's that?" cried Lucille.

"Here, have a taste!"

She made some to all of them and they all sat there devouring it and voicing their opinions. Lucille saying she would have preferred apple over fig.

...

Marianne helped Cecile clear up the table as the children went on to the field.

Her energy was much restored and her spirits were rising. For the first time since what felt like forever, she had actually enjoyed herself.

"Your children are delightful," she beamed at Cecile.

"They've taken quite a liking to you," replied Cecile. She was about to ask her where she picked up the taste for figs and goat cheese but her eyes flit to the bandage wrapped around her guest's forearm as she lifted up her sleeves.

"Oh dear, what happened here?" she grabbed her arm and stroked it gently.

Marianne flinched, startling Cecile.

"It…it was an accident," she said, turning away. She could feel a lump forming in her throat.

Cecile unwrapped the bandage. It was beginning to show signs of infection. The sight of it made Marianne almost nauseated. Cecile hurriedly brought some tinctures from the cupboard and soaked a towelette with hot water.

...

Marianne winced and groaned with pain. She bit her other hand to contain herself but Cecile gave her a cinnamon stick instead.

"Bite on this. No use in getting your other arm injured," she joked.

"I feel silly," she admitted afterwards, "How weak I must seem compared to the pain you will endure and have endured already," she gestured towards Cecile's belly.

Cecile chuckled, "They're very different kinds of pain, my dear. Besides, a dagger wound is not something trifle."

Their eyes locked. Marianne was sure that her hostess harbored suspicions about her. And yet she hasn't reproached her nor asked her anything.

"My brother is a solider. I have often had the misfortune of tending to him when he was at home. He's not too careful. Always running into danger and into all kinds of scrapes and mishaps with his friends. He thinks it's fun. What folly, if you ask me!"

Marianne smiled.

"Let's get you into a bath, shall we? The water will help with the wound and I daresay you could use it."

Her guest blushed again. She was right. She could even smell herself. How this kind person had even allowed her to sit at her dining table and sleep in her house looking and smelling like this was simply beyond her. What luck was it that had brought here of all places! The guilt washed over her again. She had begged God for death and instead, she was given a new beginning in this welcoming and kind place. But for how long?

Cecile began to gather the buckets to fetch water, but Marianne jumped up in time and collected them from her.

"I'll fetch the water," she said. Cecile was taken aback. What kind of a lady fetches water for her own bath! "I…I can't let you carry these in your…err, condition."

Cecile regarded her with a defiant look.

"I meant no offence! I only meant that you… shouldn't have to. You must rest and… Well, you have already made breakfast and…"

"There is no rest for people like us, Mademoiselle," replied Cecile sharply.

Marianne felt terrible. She had offended her hostess.

Seeing the look on her face, Cecile felt guilty. She had said too much. This young lady was only trying to help. In her naivety, she understood nothing of their way of life, of their struggles. But unlike many of the young ladies in her rank that Cecile had encountered or heard about, this stranger did not seem to recognize this inherent divide between classes. Cecile had to admit, there was a certain malleability about her that made her blend into whatever crowd she was put into. She was genuine, grateful and compassionate behind her exterior reserve.

"There's a running brook by the mill. You'll have to make multiple trips and take the buckets up the stairs," Cecile instructed her, attempting to test her resolve for this task.

Marianne nodded and set about her task.

...

_Ahhhh!_ How good this hot water felt! Marianne felt her limbs unfold and the knots in her muscles unfurl. She was in heaven. For the past couple of days, it seemed that her life had been one terrible event after another. It was only a few days ago, she realized, that she was happily lounging under the sun with the man she loved. So much had happened since then it felt like an eternity had passed.

She couldn't help but think of him. In such a short time, she had found herself completely enraptured with this adorable and kind giant of a musketeer. She remembered the way he looked at her. With admiration, with tenderness, with pride, with desire. She felt so special with him. And she felt selfless. She knew she loved him for who he was, for his kindness, for his strength, for his temperament, for his generosity of heart and spirit. She loved the way his body felt on hers. The sheer warmth it emanated. She reveled in being in his arms, in feeling the force of his passions. The more she thought of him, the more she realized she could barely recognize the man who had fought with her in the stables. He seemed like someone else. Someone brutal, cold, possessive and discompassionate. He wouldn't even listen to her. And he regarded her with such contempt.

But could she blame him? Can she honestly say he acted out of a lack of affection for her? No, quite the opposite. He acted exactly as anyone would if the person they loved had betrayed them. And despite all her intentions, she _had _betrayed him. That was a fact. She sank deeper into the water.

He had wanted to marry her. To make her his wife. _His wife_. She had only thought of being his mistress. She never allowed herself to go further than that. She knew what musketeers were like. The mistress of Porthos. The wife of Porthos. She toyed uselessly with the idea. There was no point. It was all over now anyway. Now she had other things to think about.

What will she do here? How will she live? Cecile's husband was right, they can't keep her here forever and no one can find out about who she was.

There was a gentle knock on the door and Cecile poked her head in. Marianne instinctively covered her nude body.

"I brought you these for your bath, fresh from the garden," she said as she sprinkled fragrant rose petals into the bath.

Without waiting for an invitation, she brought a stool and sat behind Marianne, combing and untangling her hair. How nice it felt! How comforting!

"I would usually bring pine cones and rosemary. That's what my brother likes. This is usually his room."

Marianne's heart leapt. Pine and rosemary… It reminded her fondly of Porthos.

"Your brother, the solider?"

"Yes. He's a musketeer, actually," said Cecile proudly.

Marianne's body tensed and she grimaced, her hand reflexively covering the wound on her forearm. _A musketeer_! _No, it can't be… _the regiment was large enough that she could mean any one of them.

Cecile was surprised by this strange and sudden reaction. Ah, so there was a connection there.

"Do you know any musketeers, Mademoiselle Katherine?"

"I… can't say that I do. At least, not closely. That is, I have seen them in court. I mean, not in court," _Oh God… in court!_ She was supposed to be a peasant girl, not a courtier! "In stories, from friends who have, err, served at the court." Served in the court. Yes, that's what servants did, they served. At the court. _Good God, Marianne_, _you giant imbecile_! She brought her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to hide her the flaming red that came over them.

"Ah! I'm sure your friends have many exciting stories to tell, then. Mine do. They're all over the country, you see. It is fascinating isn't it, how much servants know about their masters?"

Marianne swallowed with difficulty, "Yes. Very. Do you know...?"

She turned around abruptly to face Cecile, accidentally spilling water onto the floor.

"While I was bringing the water, I noticed a malfunction in your mill," she said matter-of-factly, catching her hostess completely off-guard.

"I…Well… Yes, it hadn't been functional for more than a year now. The blacksmith took a look but he said it was hopeless. We have to replace it and the money hasn't come around for it yet."

"I shall take a look at it tomorrow, then, if you will allow me."

Cecile wasn't sure if the young lady in front of her was simply out of her mind or joking. She looked in her eyes searchingly for some sign but she could find nothing. No, the girl was dead serious.

"If you…wish?" she limply replied.

"Good," replied her guest and reclined back into her bath, placing herself comfortably underneath the comb that Cecile still held in midair. And with the same tone which now Cecile thought sounded more authoritative and reassured, she said, "I also noticed that the kitchen gate was loose. I will take look at that tomorrow as well. and I may have an idea on how to make it easier to transport water to and from the brook by way of the mill."

Marianne closed her eyes and exhaled. Victory!

On her end, Cecile felt utterly defeated. For a moment, she was so close to finding the truth about this strange girl. As she usually did with her victims, she had her completely in her grip, she put her completely at ease and began talking of things that were not completely relevant, allowing her companion to fill in the blanks naturally for her. But not only had this young woman succeed in redirecting the conversation, but she left Cecile herself completely flabbergasted.

Worse, she found herself ever more drawn to this stranger, ever more susceptible to that innocent charm of hers, that natural wildness. And for some inexplicable reason, she found herself growing fond of her.

"Well you're a strange cat, aren't you?" she said inaudibly to herself under her breath.

But Marianne caught wind of it and sighed, succumbing to the scalp rub her hostess was giving her, "More than you know!"


	3. Chapter 3

Cecile Bouchette led an ordinary life. She was brought up in a relatively poor family in a suburb at the outskirts of Paris. When she was sixteen, she fell in love with a stable boy, who had an usual passion for the upbringing for horses, and they married. Twelve years later, she and her husband had built a small empire for themselves, enough to support them and their young family comfortably.

She was a practical woman and she took after her mother in many ways. Being the eldest of her siblings, Cecile was a maternal figure to them, especially after their mother had passed on. She was outgoing, generous, compassionate and she helped anyone and everyone who was in need. Wherever she went, her matriarchal reputation followed her and everyone felt instantly at ease and comforted in her presence. To many, Cecile was like a Saint. She never judged anyone even if she was blunt in her observations. She only ever meant to paint a situation as it was, as she believed that there was always power in knowing where one stood at the present.

Cecile had no mean bone in her body but she discovered early on that her comforting presence allowed her a certain privacy with people. They willingly told her things without her ever having to ask. And as her circle of acquaintances and friends grew with the business of her husband, this ability came in handy. She knew the habits of the nobility well and she knew which of them needed new horses at which times of the year, which greatly advanced her husband's trade. But more so, she was privy to the raunchiest and latest gossip from the court to elsewhere throughout France and the women in the village or random travelers would come to her specifically seeking entertainment or information.

But in all the stories that she had come across in her life, in all the scandals, the strange happenings and comings and goings of people, she had never met anyone as eccentric as this young lady who, by mere chance, ended up at her farm. And she never pictured herself to be in a situation where she would be standing over another woman in such an obscene manner, her legs on either side of her waist while the other woman lay on her back. The latter was busy fixing – yes, _fixing_ \- the underworkings of their farm's mill, her face tainted with grease and coal.

"The wrench, if you please," she called out from underneath her. Cecile obeyed.

"Thank you. If you look here, you could see the bolt that was damaged from the pressure. And this is where the new piece would fit in. Did the boy bring them from the village?"

"Yes, they're all here."

An hour or so later, the two women stood outside the mill as Marianne, or Katherine, as she called herself, pulled on the lever. They held their breath.

Nothing happened.

She jolted the lever a bit more and… Crack! The mill creaked and it began to turn, slowly at first and then picking up until reaching its appropriate speed of churn.

The two women jumped up and down in enthusiasm, squealing in joy and triumph.

"What in the world…!" the voice of a man came behind them.

"Look, darling! Isn't it wonderful?"

"How did you…?"

"Katherine fi-…"

But Marianne cut her off, "I went and fetched a different locksmith. He only just left. You just missed him."

He looked at her suspiciously. A different locksmith, was it? There was no other locksmith in the village. But he preferred not to ask any other questions, to the relief of everyone.

...

Dinner that night was a glorious affair and any misgivings Bertrand Bouchette had about their new guest completely vanished when he laid eyes on the dinner table.

Under the careful – and patient – instruction of Cecile, Marianne assisted in the preparations. For the first course, they had prepared squash and leek soup garnished with fresh chives and parsley. To accompany the soup, they had baked loaves and baguettes that turned out to perfection: crispy on the outside and moist on the inside. For the second course, they had beetroot salad with chopped onions, a generous helping of freshly ground black pepper and some pickled vegetables from the previous season.

But the star of the party was the main course: Roasted ham marinated in a fruity house-made red wine, and garnished with dried rosemary and garlic cloves.

As an accompaniment, there was a generous helping of peas and potatoes, along with a delicate wine to wash it all down.

….

Owing to the generous amount of food, Cecile sent her husband to the nearby estate of the Comte de Beaugrand to fetch her sister, who worked as a maid in their manor.

Any nervousness Marianne harbored in regards to meeting a new member of the family completely disappeared when a young woman, who was much shorter than her sister and of such pleasing countenance ran through the door towards her. She was all smiles and excitement and her eyes, a familiar grey-green twinkled relentlessly as if she was alight. Her youth and energy were just invigorating and infectious.

"I've heard so much about you I was sure we would be friends instantly!"

Her sister playfully slapped her bottom with a kitchen rag and pulled her away from Marianne to remove her bonnet for her.

"You have barely heard anything and do leave the young lady alone," Cecile scolded her. "You will overwhelm her with your uncontrollable glee. Besides, that's not the way of a lady ought to behave."

"Well good thing I'm not a lady," the latter snorted with laughter as if she had just said the most scandalizing thing in the world.

Marianne couldn't help but laugh too.

"I'm Emilie, by the way," she beamed at her, ever more encouraged by Marianne's laughter.

"I'm M – Katherine," she quickly corrected herself. A pang of guilt and sadness went through her mind. Guilty for having to lie to these people who had been so kind to her. And sad that she wasn't able to share herself completely with them. They made her feel right at home and she desperately longed for that. For home.

"What a lovely name! How ladylike! And look at your hair," gasped Emilie as she ran her fingers through it, a look of absolute wonder on her face, "My God! What a strange color, isn't it, Cecile?"

Her sister rolled her eyes, "Stop this ridiculousness at once."

"But truly! What color is that? It's not fully red but it's not brown either and I wouldn't call it brassy," she continued to examine her. Marianne blushed.

"Leave her alone!" Cecile tore her sister away and wisely announced, "It's actually a dark mahogany auburn."

Her sister gasped in delight, "How exquisite! Can you imagine having dark mahogany auburn hair, Cecile?"

She danced around the kitchen, taking Marianne's hands in hers. "Oh, how wonderful! Instead of having this dull dark hair like mine," she held a lock of her hair limply in her fingers to show her new friend.

"I think your hair is quite beautiful," Marianne replied.

"Don't humour her, Katherine. She's fishing for compliments."

"No, I'm not!" Emilie cried out, indignant.

The excitement continued throughout dinner. The mood was gleeful and spirited. Even Bertrand, with a little help from the wine, seemed a lot less like his neurotic self and more talkative and friendly. It had only been a couple of days, but she felt as though she had known this family forever. Marianne couldn't help but stare at young and spirited Emilie. The color of her eyes, the shape of her face, her animated expressions. There was a remarkable resemblance between her and young Peter who was gleefully munching on his peas and potatoes with no care in the world. And there was a resemblance to _him_. The whole sitting even wreaked of his presence. As if he was there, telling a story, laughing, helping himself to more and more servings of this divine food. Or maybe she _wished_ he was there. This felt like just the thing Porthos would enjoy and wouldn't it be lovely if they had shared this together? If he was here with her? If, after all this, they had gone out for a stroll and then back to their room and made love?

Her heart sank with these thoughts but thankfully, her spirits quickly picked up with Emilie's incessant questions and exclamations and other declarations that could elicit nothing but mirth.

Marianne watched the interaction between the two sisters with utter amusement and a hint of envy. The bond between them was simply unbreakable. They knew each other inside out. They knew how to tease each other, how to compliment each other and she could tell that they were there for each other through thick or thin. Marianne folded her arms about her as she suddenly felt all the more conscious of her own aloneness. She took another sip of wine and rejoined the conversation.

"Didn't you say the Comte de Beaugrand and his wife were looking for a governess?"

"They are. Oh, the last one was absolutely terrifying. How glad I was when she left," exclaimed Emilie and proceeded to tell a most shocking yet funny story about said governess.

"I think Katherine would do well for the position," said Cecile casually.

The table went silent. Marianne blinked. A _position_? As a _governess_? In a household of a Comte? She hadn't had time to think about her situation or make up a new plan. To return to Paris was dangerous and to go home could also be dangerous. At least for now. But if she disappeared for a while and left the impression that she was lost or dead, then no one would come looking for her. Then, she could finally go home. Yes, that sounded like a good idea!

Emilie's eyes shot wide open and she exclaimed, "What a TREMENDOUSLY wonderful idea! Of course! We shall work together, then. Oh! We could even share a room!"

The table suddenly shook as Bertraned Bouchette's fist slammed next to his plate.

"Enough," he said calmly, "No one is going anywhere until we arrive to the bottom of this matter. I cannot have my reputation compromised, Mademoiselle, should I recommend you to the Comte and then we make discoveries about you."

"What kind of discoveries could you possibly mean?" cried Emilie, scandalized at the allusion.

But Marianne understood. "You think me a dishonorable woman, monsieur?"

"Bertrand!" hissed Cecile. Trust her husband to ruin her perfectly concocted plans of slowly and painlessly extracting information.

"Well, what else should we think, Cecile? A young woman shows up one night on a Cardinal's horse. In the _middle_ of the night no less, with blood stains on her dress and a wounded arm. She's either a whore or a wanted criminal, or a witch."

Emilie gasped with all her breath.

Cecile's face turned the color of beets and Marianne could tell that he just accorded himself the brunt of his wife's temper.

"I am neither a criminal nor a witch, Monsieur. Nor am I, as you say, a _whore_," she answered him disdainfully.

"Please, Mademoiselle, you do not have to justify. Bertrand did not mean…" began Cecile.

"No, he is right. What _else_ could you possibly think?" she stood up and left the table.

...

Cecile smacked her husband on the head while Emilie went after their guest.

"You can't leave things well alone, can ye!"

"Cecile, we worked hard for what we built," he said calmly, taking her hand in his, "I can't risk any possibility of ruin for us."

"Which is precisely why we can't go around accusing young ladies of the nobility of being criminals or, or…" Cecile couldn't utter the word.

"I may have gone a little far and rather tactlessly."

"Tactlessly! What an understatement! You…"

Cecile stopped short when Marianne walked back in the kitchen, Emilie trailing behind her. She sat back in her seat and took a deep breath. Emilie ushered the children out of the room.

"My uncle and I were guests of the Cardinal's for the past week or so during the events of the Royal Convention," she began. Emilie sat down, wide-eyed. She couldn't believe she was in the presence of someone who knew the Cardinal Richelieu in person! And not just that, she had actually been invited to _stay_ at his residence. The _Cardinal_'s residence! How exquisite!

On her part, Cecile couldn't help but think of one thing: if this young woman had been at the Cardinal's, then she must have inevitably made the acquaintance of a musketeer or two. They would certainly not hold back their attempts in courting someone as beautiful as her – her figure must certainly have aroused the interest of these men, thought Cecile, especially after having seen her in the nude.

"Unbeknownst to me, my uncle had agreed with the Cardinal to have me married to his lieutenant, who is an odious man."

"The Comte de Rochefort?!" They all cried unanimously.

Marianne was taken aback. She suddenly regretted saying anything at all. She should have just run away again. Or made up another story. Good God! Was Rochefort known all over the country? Didn't the Cardinal have other lieutenants or special soldiers like the three musketeers? The three Red Guard or something similar? Gerard had been right about her. She was naiive and ignorant beyond anything.

There was no use denying it. She nodded slowly, looking down at the table.

"So, you ran away!" cried Emilie, wide-eyed.

_Well, not exactly_, thought Marianne. She decided against telling them the part about the Iron Mask and the attack. At least for now. She nodded to Emilie's statement.

"Oh, how brave of you!"

"Not brave!" cried Bertrand. He had risen up and was now pacing. He was in a panic. "W-we can-cannot possibly be harboring the runaway betrothed bride of the Come de Ro-Rochefort!" he was stuttering and almost at the point of pulling out his hair. Imagine the ruin! To discover that he was hiding the fiancée of one of his richest customers. Blast! Everything he worked for would be destroyed in a blink. They would be penniless and outcasts from all good society forever. And oh, the shame that follow his offspring!

"Calm yourself, Monsieur Bouchette," Cecile snapped at him. She was used to these bouts of neurotic displays on the part of her husband's.

"The Comte de Rochefort is a wealthy and important man, I cannot imagine why any woman would refuse this marriage," she said in the same tone, addressing Marianne.

"I…do not love him!" replied Marianne. _And he was unkind to me_, Marianne thought, remembering the last encounter she had with him when he had painfully gripped her wrists and forced her to kiss him against her will.

Emilie came to her defense, "And he's an odious man, Cecile!" The reputation of the Come de Rochefort preceded him, it seemed.

Emilie turned to Marianne, "There was someone else you loved, wasn't there? Oh, there always is in these stories!"

Marianne blushed deeply and averted her eyes, which seemed to only encourage the former. "There was! How utterly romantic!" she swooned.

Even Cecile was now intrigued. She shooed her husband out of the room and instructed him to take a walk, as she took her seat at the table.

"A musketeer, perhaps?" she prodded her.

Marianne closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Oh God. Nothing in her life and thorough education had ever prepared her for an examination like this. Should she lie? Tell a different story? What story would she tell, anyway? She didn't have much of a repository in her head.

"Perhaps," she said, feeling defeated.

Emilie was about to exclaim something when Cecile laid her hand on her shoulder to quiet her down a bit.

"Did he love you?"

"I thought he did." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She could feel her heart getting heavy once more.

"Did he know, about your engagement?"

Marianne nodded.

"Was he violent to you?" Cecile asked kindly, stretching out her hand and taking Marianne's in hers. She nodded at her injured arm.

Marianne shook her head, "It was an accident. We quarrelled and… it was an accident," she repeated.

"Well, you just wait until my brother is home for the Holidays. We shall tell him who it was who hurt you and he will certainly give them a good beating!" Emilie had reached across the table and taken Marianne's other hand.

"Shush, Emilie! We won't do such a thing."

"I won't shush. Porthos always sticks up for those who cannot and I am sure he will be very upset to learn what has become of Katherine."

Marianne was now as pale as a sheet and her jaw dropped open.

"Porthos…?" she whispered.

"Yes, he's our brother! He's also musketeer of the King and he's…"

"Enough!" cried Cecile, quieting the outburst of her sister.

The room was shrouded in silence for what seemed like an eternity. Cecile closely observed their guest. She was utterly immobile, like a statue, except for the up-and-down movement of her chest.

Could it really have been Porthos? But what did he have to do with the wound on her arm? Her heart sank. It couldn't have been him. She was sure of one thing, though: there was certainly a connection and she intended to find out the exact details. In the meantime, if there was any chance that Porthos was in love with this young lady, she owed it to her brother not to send her back to Rochefort.


	4. Chapter 4

The ball at the residence of the Comte de Beaugrand proved to be a grand affair. Everything was sparkly and dazzling, all the way from the exquisite chandeliers to the shiny silver platters and serving bowels, to the extravagant dress and decorative jewelry of the men and women attending.

At the bizarre request and insistence of her husband, the Comtesse de Beaugrand had her maid fish out a dress from her youth to lend to Marianne for the ball. Despite Emilie's best efforts to alter the dress to fit Marianne, who was almost half the size of the Comtesse, she still felt completely out of place in it. The décolletage was low. Extravagantly low. And the corset she was given to wear was in the latest Parisian fashion; in other words, a big part of her generous bosom was on public display. The sleeves were short, showcasing the milky white skin of her arms, now a little tan after having acquired some time in the sun. She wore long silver gloves to cover up the scar on her left arm.

She stood in the corner of the room, feeling nude and exposed, trying her best to melt into the wall so that no one would notice her. She knew no one in this ballroom and those who would come to her side of the room stared at her in ways that made her deeply ill at ease. The dress was certainly out of fashion and her lack of jewellery gave away her current social status. She didn't know which was worse: The women who stared at her with disdain and haughtiness, and then pulled out their fans and whispered a thing or two while sizing her up and down; or the men who briefly looked at her face before their eyes rested lustfully on her bosom and a malicious smile dessinated on their faces.

She could only avert her eyes and blush under this cruel and shameless scrutiny. Upon her protest, the Comte de Beaugrand had patiently explained to her that a young woman of her composition and figure should not remain unmarried for long. This is exactly what he would have done to any of his daughters, he had said, as if _that_ was reassuring. _And better for your protection_, he had added.

Marianne sighed. Her hand instinctively went to the sole piece of jewellery she wore: the necklace chain that was threaded through the ring she had come with.

_"Take this. Keep it with you at all times and you will find help wherever you seek it."_

Monsieur Lemay's words echoed in her head. Throughout the events of the last two weeks, she had barely had time to think about that wretched night. It haunted her dreams, that was for sure. Since they shared a room, Emilie would often shake her awake as Marianne would whine aloud and occasionally scream in her dreams. The phrases she screamed out were paradoxically limited to: "please don't hurt me" and "please don't leave me", depending on the context of the dream. She would then wake up with a start, completely drenched in sweat and hyperventilating. She felt embarrassed and awful for frightening the poor girl. The kind soul would then bring her a glass of water and wipe away the sweat and tears. "After everything you have been through, it is remarkable I haven't seen you cry once. But I guess it all comes out at night," Emilie had remarked to her one night, with all the tender pity she could muster.

Marianne had nodded, not knowing what to answer. But she was right. What was wrong with her? The last time she cried was such a long time ago she couldn't even remember it. She examined the recent events and realized that the loss of everyone she loved had not drawn any tears from her. Was that normal?

It couldn't be normal. Surely, she was dead inside… like she always suspected she was. It made sense. She had never been able to love anyone before Porthos. No one was able to touch her heart. She let herself be swayed by Maxim's moods and occasional brutality, thinking it would elicit something in her but it never did. And how easy was it to make that calculated decision to marry Rochefort and forsake Porthos. Did she not love Porthos? Why had she not cried for him? Or even for Gerard, who had betrayed her above all else, who had abandoned her? Or for Monsieur Lemay who had died protecting her, or for her uncle who was probably lost to her forever.

She sniggered to herself, feeling bitter. All those years in seclusion, thinking she was pursuing a passion, giving herself completely to this cold and utterly rational discipline of scientific discovery and invention. She thought it was enough. That her world was enough. Her, Gerard, her home and her workshop. That was enough, wasn't it? Everything else was insignificant. Flirting was a pastime, a way to test her powers of control, nothing more. But then the King's ball changed everything for her. _He_ changed everything for her. Suddenly, she was feeling things, enjoying things, longing for things… _dreaming_ of things.

But what a folly it all was! What a terrible trap she had fallen into. The world was not made of fun nor of dreams. It was a cruel and unjust place.

...

She fingered the ring Monsieur Lemay had given her. The silver gleamed brightly in the light and she could clearly see the sword and the quill with all their minute details engraved on it, flanking the fleur-de-lys.

When Emilie first brought her to the house as a candidate for the governess position, the Comtesse de Beaugrand had dismissed them both with such condescension, it infuriated Marianne, mainly on behalf of her new friend. But Emilie had restrained her and pulled her out of the room before she could burst into a tantrum. As they left, Marianne was huffing and puffing as they accidentally bumped into the Comte, who had called her into his chambers.

She didn't know why or how. It was almost instinctive. Like a gesture that did not belong to her, but to a different person whose spirit temporarily possessed her. Before anyone of them had said anything, she stretched out her arm, her head held high and presented him with her hand. The ring glimmered in the sunlight of his bureau and he had looked at her with astonishment and then with defiance. What he said next in response to this gesture was simply…bizarre:

"When the darkness descends and the night thickens,

When the moon is eclipsed and the stars are hidden,

Our only hope rests in our hearts and spirits…"

He folded his palm outwards in a gesture to prompt her to finish the rhyme, but Marianne simply blinked at him, stupefied.

That poem! Her uncle used to recite it to her all the time. It was many verses longer than this but he used to always emphasize the last verse, always saying it was the "key". The key to the poem, she had assumed, whatever that meant in poetry structure. Poetry was never her strongest suit. _The key…_

_"_Well_?"_ The Comte was getting impatient. Was she an imposter? Had she stolen this ring? It wasn't unheard of and those who stole it usually never knew the significance of it. He was prepared to show her the door when…

"With the eternal gift of the divine knowledge,

Our souls are never dimmed nor diminished,

In life and in death, in love and light we trust."

He smiled at her approvingly.

"Welcome to my household, Madame. I will not ask your real name but you must agree to my rules, for with this ring, you entrust me with your protection." He took her hand and kissed her ring.

And that was it. She was employed in his household and in charge of five rather spoilt and unpleasant children, who were unfortunately every bit like their mother.

...

A high-pitched voice behind her interrupted her reverie. She turned around abruptly and poked her head through the door behind her that opened onto the hallway leading to the servant's quarters.

"He's almost here!" the newcomer said gleefully.

Marianne scrutinized her face, "Who's almost here?"

"The man I told you about!" Emilie took her hands in hers and giggled.

"What man?"

"Come on, Katherine! I told you I will introduce you to someone special at the ball!" Emilie pouted.

"Oh, I thought you were joking," Marianne replied. She was exasperated. Despite her reserved composure, Marianne couldn't help but instantly fall in love with this adorable creature. Her charm was unavoidable and she felt completely at ease with her. Yet having been more thoroughly acquainted with solitude throughout her life, Marianne was not used to so much interaction all at once and Emilie was quite the interactive type. She was unrelenting. All she wanted to talk about was boys and the latest fashions and gossip and Marianne proved to be a disappointment in that regard because she had no knowledge in those areas. But that didn't discourage this young spirited woman. She did not need a reply from her friend; she was happy to have someone to listen and Marianne gradually grew interested in these things, despite herself. She now knew what corsets were in fashion, which dress cuts were in, what the Queen wore when the Royal party went hunting and etc. Information that, to her, was not useful in any regard except in cultivating a bond with Emilie. Which was every bit worth it.

After hearing her friend's tragic story, Emilie absolutely insisted on introducing her to someone "to take her mind off things". But Marianne was in no humour for such an excursion. She was tired and exhausted all the time. She never knew work could be so… laborious!

Emilie put on the most serious face she possibly could, "I never joke about these things."

Marianne sighed and spoke under her breath, "Of course not."

"Don't worry! He's just your type. I know that tall handsome dark men are not to your liking," to that, Marianne raised her eye brows.

Emilie nudged her playfully, "There's no shame in big muscular men! Although mind you, they're not always very bright and I do rather think you should be with a bright person. But if that's what you like…"

Emilie concluded with a shrug as if to say, "I really don't know how to help you with this. You're a lost cause."

Marianne shook her head and regarded her friend with amusement.

"Very well, what's the harm, I'll meet him. I suppose a little flirtation wouldn't hurt," she relented.

"Ohhh!" Emilie squealed, "Oh you're going to just love him!"

Marianne chuckled, "Oh, I'm not sure I will _love_ him."

The latter squeezed her hand and giggled, "The dancing should start in five minutes so make your way to the inner gardens, towards the little fountain. Oh, how romantic, I am _so_ excited! How I wish this was happening to me," she swooned. Marianne could never tell if Emilie's romantic outbursts were more endearing or exhausting, but she smiled tenderly at her and it was all she could do not to give her a big hug.

Marianne turned back to the room to make sure no one was watching her and then….

She saw him.

There at the far end of the room.

Her eyes widened with horror and surprise. What was _he_ doing here?

"Emilie!" she hissed. "He's here…"

"Who's here?"

"The man I told you about."

Marianne was in a complete panic. Did he see her?

Emilie peeked into the ballroom, absolutely puzzled. Porthos was not supposed to be here, not inside. No, he was waiting outside. Did he change his mind? Oh, she will be so angry at him if the Comte sees him crashing the ball uninvited!

But then her eyes landed on a tall dark-haired man, handsome and rugged. Exactly like the ones in the stories. Except… this man had one eye, while the other eye was covered in a black patch. His valid eye rested on them, on Marianne particularly, and Emilie had never felt so much malice in her life.

End of Bonus! Thank you for reading ^^


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